Impatient for some refreshment, Carbo snatched the bucket from the man’s hands and tipped it over his head.
The garrison soldier kept the questions coming. “There’s a rumor that the Parthian army is chasing you. That true?”
“Nope, it’s just Bacchus and a dozen cohorts of horny drunken river nymphs hot on our tail,” Libo told him, taking a seat on a low wall and loosening his blood-caked cuirass. “They fucked each of us rotten. It’s your turn next.”
The legionary scowled.
“Hey, Libo,” Carbo called to his comrade through gritted teeth, “help me dig this shit-stinking arrowhead out of my chest, will you?”
*
Accompanied by guards and a number of senior officers, Proconsul Crassus, Legate Cassius Longinus, and Governor Coponius made their way to the highest point on the walls facing east.
“The horizon is clear,” Coponius remarked, finding the anxiety displayed by the proconsul and his legate catching.
“They will come,” said Crassus.
“In what condition are your walls and gate?” Longinus inquired.
“They are not built to withstand any kind of assault. They are low, barely twenty paces in height, and easily scaled by a reasonably equipped force.”
“Do you have stores?” asked Crassus.
“We have only begun to lay them in. There is a channel dug to the river, which supplies our water, but if we are invested, this Spāhbed Surenas will cut it. Fresh water will be our biggest challenge. Much will depend on the enemy’s determination. I believe we have the forces to hold off any concerted effort to take the town for one or possibly two weeks at the most, and that’s assuming our water supply is interrupted.”
“I will take a troop of horse, depart immediately and bring reinforcements,” said Longinus.
“The nearest city with a sizeable garrison is Beroea,” Coponius told him, “four days march to the west.”
“Governor!” exclaimed one of Coponius’s officers. The soldier pointed east. Buried in the rippling boiling air where the desert met sky was a moving black line that had not been there just moments before.
Marcus Lucinius Crassus steadied himself, putting a hand on the wall, failing to keep his fear at bay. He glanced around to see if anyone had caught this moment of weakness and saw Cassius Longinus averting his eyes, disgust in them.
*
Much of Rufinius’s contubernium took refuge in the shade thrown by a circular dwelling made of mud bricks and straw – the oddly preferred style of building in the town. A hefty sack slung over his shoulder, Dentianus hobbled his way toward his comrades through the dusty square, dodging legionaries, donkeys, horses, camels, carts, goatherds and their bony animals, traveling merchants and local inhabitants. Behind Dentianus came a weather-beaten man with a face tanned almost black by the sun beneath a small circular white hat. Three sheep tethered together with twine followed him reluctantly and he jerked on the tether occasionally when the animals faltered.
His damaged foot troubling him, Dentianus hopped the final few steps to avoid being trampled by several auxiliary cavalry trotting down the via, in a hurry to be somewhere. He swung the sack off his shoulder onto the dirt at Libo’s feet.
Rufinius opened one eye. “Been busy.”
Dentianus rummaged through the sack, pulled out four round loaves of bread and handed them over to grunts of delight. “Got some wine here too for you cunni. Only a couple of skins, so go easy. And there’s cheese, olives …”
Libo handed Rufinius a hunk of bread. The centurion tore some off and passed the rest to Fabianus. “Make sure everyone gets a share,” the centurion told Libo.
“Who’s your friend,” asked Rufinius.
“This is Pax,” Dentianus said, putting a hand on the shoulder of the shepherd, the man grinning with a set of decayed teeth worn down to black gums. “Actually his name is Paxagoniceles, or something completely unfuckingpronouncable like it. Pax is going to sell us these here three sheep. I was thinking before we eat them we should sacrifice one to Mithra, the other to Bellona, and I’m open to suggestions on god number three.”
“Give it to any god who can get our fly-blown cocks out of this shit hole, I say,” said Libo cutting off a chunk of cheese with his pugio. “You’re good, Dentianus,” he added, waggling the blade at him.
“Second that,” Carbo said drowsily, lying flat on his back and keeping a rag against the oozing hole in his chest where the arrowhead used to be. He had been lucky. The head that lodged in his chest had first gone through another legionary’s shield and his arm before hitting Carbo’s shield and then his cuirass. The gristle between two ribs had finally stopped it and only one of its barbs was beneath his skin. The wound, however, was ugly, buzzing with flies and weeping.
Libo tossed some cheese the size of a fist onto the legionary’s stomach. “Eat it, Carbo. Keep your strength up.”
Rufinius was as interested in food as much as anyone, but something else had caught his eye. He stood up and took a couple of painful steps toward the shepherd, who retreated, intimidated by Rufinius’s towering height, blond hair, and hard blue eyes.
“Easy, Arab,” Rufinius said, raising a hand and attempting a smile to put the man at rest.
The centurion reached slowly for the bow on the man’s back and again the shepherd took an uneasy pace away. “Dentianus, talk to him. I just want a look at his bow. Not going to steal it.”
Dentianus beamed broadly at the man, put his arm around him, pressed a few coins into his palm and reassured him with various universal sounds and gestures of friendship. He then slipped the bow gently off the man’s back and handed it to Rufinius.
“Where’d you get the denarii, Dentianus?” Libo wanted to know.
“From him.” Dentianus motioned at the shepherd. “Where do you think?”
“You’re going to pay him with coins you stole from him?” Carbo said.
“Are you complaining? I don’t know whether any of you dick breaths noticed, but we don’t got no baggage train.”
“Just asking.”
“And anyway, I earned it – you wouldn’t believe where he kept it.”
“Enough, please!” Libo held up his hand and shook his head, his mouth full of bread and cheese.
Rufinius accepted the bow with some gestures that were meant to compliment the shepherd on its impressiveness. That seemed to put him at ease, the Arab breaking into a black grin.
Rufinius had done his fair share of hunting as a young man so he had more than a passing familiarity with bows, but he’d never seen anything like this. Its limb wasn’t a single piece of wood in the Roman fashion, but a length of horn that curved back on itself, with a core of a dense type of wood, and then sinew on the side furthest from the archer. And all of it had been tightly glued and bound together so that it seemed as one. Hefting the gut bowstring back to his lips took real effort. “And that’s why their arrows went straight through our shields,” he mumbled to himself.
The Arab had an arrow in his hand, the barbed head identical to the projectile Rufinius had just cut out of Carbo’s chest. Yes, this was indeed the weapon that had destroyed the legions.
“So what about the sheep?” Dentianus asked the men lying or sitting in the dust. “What say you, fellow legionaries? Do we want ’em, or what?”
And then a distant cornicen sounded an order and all movement in the square ceased suddenly and completely. The cornicens blew their notes again, in case anyone hadn’t heard the command to prepare for battle.
*
Volodates leaned in the saddle, releasing some of the soreness in his back, hips and thighs, and then rode forward several paces, beyond the lines of 300 horse archers accompanying him. A hot desert wind slapped the gold and blue robes against his armor.
He squinted up at the covered balcony atop the towers on either side of the gate. The Roman army was behind this wall, quite obviously. The false trails the invaders had put down, sending riders away from the main column to c
onfuse pursuit, all eventually led here to this walled of town of Carrhae, as he had known they would. Truly, where else could the enemy go? All around for some considerable distance was nothing but desert, dust, and flies.
Volodates cleared his throat and called out: “I bring greetings to the Roman Proconsul Crassus from Rustaham Surenas, Spāhbed of King Orodes the Second, King of Kings, Sovereign of all Parthia, Ruler of Two Rivers, Son of the Sun, beloved by Mithra and Ahura Mazda. Please show yourself that I may continue to discharge my duty …”
Volodates could see no movement at all up there on top of the wall, except for the flapping banners indicating the presence of a Roman garrison in the town. “Is my Greek so bad that I cannot make myself understood?” he called into the wind.
*
Crassus’s feet refused to move, though he could hear and understand the challenge issued by the Parthian beyond the walls.
“Proconsul, do not show yourself,” Coponius warned. “First let us hear what he has to say.”
Crassus nodded. Yes, that was a good idea.
*
Volodates could sense the town holding its breath. If the Romans sallied forth at this moment he and his men would be killed, but there was little chance of that with the Roman resolve clearly broken. His job was merely to ensure the enemy remained within the walls until the spāhbed himself arrived to make decisions on its fate.
“Proconsul Crassus,” the captain of horse called out above the wind, “you have fought bravely and lost much. Your army is mauled; your son’s blood now waters the desert sand. It is time for an end to these hostilities. Return to Rome with what remains of your army intact. If you will give guarantees that you will conduct war no longer against the empire of Parthia, I am here in the name of Spāhbed Surenas, no less than the commander-in-chief of the armies of King Orodes the Second, to offer you a treaty, the finer points of which will be agreed upon between you and my lord Surenas at a conference.”
*
“Do not listen to the Arab, Proconsul,” Coponius warned. “I have much experience with these people. They hold truth in low esteem if doing so will help their cause.”
Crassus looked at his senior general for an assessment.
“Primor, this could be the chance we need to save the army and secure the aquilas,” Cassius Longinus advised, unable to look his commander in the face.
“What do you say, historian?” Crassus asked. “Do I trust the man below?”
“The ten thousand Greeks trusted the Persians – ” Appias began.
“Who then slaughtered their officers,” Crassus said, cutting him off. “Yes, yes, I know all that. What Roman soldier does not?”
“As I have said, I have no military experience, Proconsul. My perspective can only be an historical one.”
“So you agree with Governor Coponius?” asked Crassus.
“What guarantees can this Volodates give you, Proconsul?” the Governor interrupted.
“What choice have we otherwise?” said Cassius Longinus, answering for Crassus. “Many of the legionaries who marched here are carrying wounds. They have also been starved of food, water, and rest. I doubt they could mount a successful attack against their own shadows. And no doubt they have lost faith in the leaders who brought them to this place.” The legate knew his words would have lashed the proconsul, but it was the truth and it needed to be said.
“Proconsul Crassus,” came a shout from the Parthian below. “What say you to a treaty?”
Crassus weighed up the advice from the men around him and realized that favorable terms, if they could be negotiated, were the only chance of bringing himself and his army home. He pushed forward to the balcony, into view. Below was a small but disciplined force of horse archers and some heavy cataphracts, their armor gleaming, set out in ordered lines. It was then that the proconsul realized that Publius had been right about Abgar. The Arab had led them straight to disaster and he, Crassus, had been the man’s willing accomplice. But there was nothing he could do about that certainty now, and Crassus made himself a promise that when he returned to Syria he would unearth the duplicitous toad and have him cut slowly into small pieces.
“To whom do I speak?” Crassus asked in perfect, educated Greek.
“My name is Volodates,” called the man in gold and blue robes over polished scale armor. “I have the honor of being Spāhbed Surenas’s Captain of Horse.”
“I commend you on the fighting prowess of your men, Volodates, and also their discipline. Please inform your spāhbed that Crassus, the Proconsul of Syria, would be pleased to enter into a treaty with the nation of Parthia that would carry the full weight of the Senate of Rome.”
Behind Crassus, in the area behind the gates, were drawn up several cohorts of legionaries, ready to fight and die if need be. But on hearing instead that a treaty would be drawn up and that there would be no fighting, the men cheered loudly and long.
Below, Volodates grinned at the sound that rose from the town and waited for it to subside. “I must go and inform my lord of your willingness,” Volodates shouted. He then led his men into the desert, leaving several behind to keep watch and guard against Roman treachery.
XI
A cornicen sounded from the battlements, forcing Crassus to interrupt his private sacrifice to Hercules. He looked to the heavens and exhaled heavily, his gut wrestling with itself. The moment of truth was nearly on him.
“Proconsul …!” a junior tribune called out before Crassus could silence him with a glare and a raised hand.
The proconsul left the residence given to him and joined Legate Cassius Longinus, Governor Coponius, and others waiting outside. “They return, primor,” said Coponius unnecessarily, and the party moved quickly toward the town walls.
From atop the battlement, away to the southwest, a band of boiling dust was burnished gold by the setting sun. It marked Spāhbed Surenas and his army approaching at pace. No one said a word, as words were unnecessary. Within moments, the band of gold was speckled here and there with black dots. Soon the dots joined and became a dark ribbon as the dust cloud neared.
Individual horses and riders soon became visible to Crassus as the rim of the sun slid beneath the edge of the desert. Its departure reminded him of a doomed ship, burned and smoldering red, that slips finally beneath the sea. And through his feet and up through his calves came the faint but strengthening vibrations of thousands of pounding hooves. A few minutes later, the heat of the day beginning to fade with the dying light, Crassus could see one man riding among many. He was sheathed in golden scales, on a horse also scaled in gold and on his head, a silver and gold helmet that came to a point. Spāhbed Surenas.
Beside him rode four horsemen shining in polished steel, carrying banners of various colors, and with various symbols on tall lances flapping furiously in the wind.
The true reality of the army that had beaten him was thus laid out before Crassus on the desert. There could be no more than 10,000 men here, all of them mounted. Abgar had not lied about that, at least. Most were archers, outnumbering the heavily armored cataphracts by an amount of ten to one. These were not barbarians but men of wealth and order. They rode in disciplined fashion, in staggered lines upwind of the breeze, so as not to eat the dust of the men in front. Their armor was uniform, beautifully maintained and presented. Surenas had fought with his head and on terms that had frustrated both Crassus and Legate Cassius Longinus. Very rarely had Surenas allowed his army to close with the legions and fight hand-to-hand as he and the legate had wanted and expected. Instead this force had killed from a distance without passion or bravery. Yes, Crassus thought, straightening his back and pushing out his chest, he had been beaten, but could it be said he was beaten by a better man …?
With the light beginning to fade, Parthian lines soon had the walls of Carrhae surrounded. Surenas wasted no time and rode forward. Lowering the veil of chainmail that protected his face, and revealing dark eyes and the waxed curls of a full and virile blue-black beard, he a
ddressed the gate in heavily accented Greek, his voice booming and powerful. “Marcus Licinius Crassus, Proconsul of Syria, commander of Rome’s army. I am Spāhbed Surenas, humble servant of King Orodes the Second, the King of Kings. It is time we met. Step forward so that I may see the man who would take Parthia’s liberty.”
This time, with not so much as a hesitation or even a glance at his own entourage, Crassus stepped to the wall.
“Proconsul!” Coponius hissed. “Beware their archers!”
Crassus ignored him and called out, “I am Marcus Licinius Crassus, Proconsul of Syria and representative of the Senate of Rome.”
“Answer me, Proconsul. Why would you invade my land when there is a treaty of friendship between our two nations?”
“Is that a condition of surrender, Parthian? That you would know my mind?”
“It is for the satisfaction of my own curiosity, Proconsul, not a condition,” Surenas said.
Crassus pondered the motives for his campaign and knew that all of them were now no more than the dust that clouded this hateful place. He had come for the glory of his house and his name, for the glory of Publius …
“Rome does as Rome must,” Crassus replied.
“And I am sure my King will keep that in mind next time the prospect of friendship is raised between our two empires.”
“What of your conditions, Parthian?” Crassus called out, his patience shortening. It was one thing to surrender, but it was quite another to have one’s face rubbed in it.
“Your men fought bravely against a committed foe, in conditions that were far from familiar to them,” the Parthian general’s voice boomed clearly above the desert. “I confess I am in awe of their fighting spirit. On a different field of battle, perhaps the result would have been reversed. You have managed by your own design to evade further fighting and have come here, to this town, which my army has surrounded, as you can see. You have two choices. One comes with favorable terms, the other with certain annihilation. As I am not one for unnecessary slaughter, I urge you to seek the former.”
Field of Mars (The Complete Novel) Page 14
